


Chained To The Rhythm

by Ponponpurin



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Battling depression (both reader and Peter), Depression, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut (maybe? We'll see how well this does), Thought it was just a good title for the fanfic, not a song fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponponpurin/pseuds/Ponponpurin
Summary: You spend your days working in a cubicle, answering calls for a company you couldn't care less about. By night, you're doing whatever you can to distract yourself from the empty feeling you feel growing inside of you. It's like you spend every day on autopilot, letting your days flow past you. What would happen if your new neighbor harbors a similar feeling? Do you both continue to live life cynically, letting autopilot drive you through? Or do you help each other out of this abyssal feeling and grow close?





	1. Oh.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys like this, please drop a comment or a kudos so I'll know and continue to update this.

Wake up, drink coffee, answer phone calls, eat lunch, answer more calls, then retire to bed. For the past three years, your life has become what felt like a cruel cycle. You aren't even aware of how you get to work sometimes, with your mind set on autopilot. Everything is so fuzzy, having become such a tiresome routine. It wasn't like you HATED your job, it was easy, and it definitely paid the bills, but it wasn't what you wanted.  
As a child, you had dreams, aspirations. When you were younger, you wanted nothing more than to work in a bakery, selling treats to smiling kids and pastries to busy, hungry adults. You had a passion for it, a passion for creating. However, that's all they ever stayed as. With your parents telling you that you needed to get a stable job, a REAL job, it was just easier to agree. So that's what you did. You became a regular adult, sacrificing your dreams and ambitions for the sake of financial security.  
Though, somehow, you'd lost your way in life. You couldn't find passion in anything. Your job felt like a chore, a task to keep you afloat in this crippling economy. Favorite shows morphed into an escape rather than entertainment. They momentarily distracted you with how unhappy your life was, temporarily filling the void you felt growing everyday. However, when your new neighbor moved in next door, your routine was suddenly thrown off balance.  
It started with the sleepless nights. No amount of ocean sounds could cover up the pitiful wailing you heard seeping through your paper thin walls. Then you were constantly bothered with your doorbell ringing every night without fail. Delivery boys (and girls) constantly mistaking his address for yours. I mean seriously, how could he eat THIS much pizza and not get sick of it by now? How did he not learn his own address?  
On what felt to be your fourth sleepless night in a row, you'd decided enough was enough. You were tired of his issues distracting you from your fiscal responsibilities. With a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair, marching your way out your door and towards your neighbor's, with every intention to give him a piece of your mind. You balled your right hand into a tight fist and knocked against his door a little too roughly. When you saw the door starting to open, you mentally prepared yourself, getting ready to give him a thorough lashing for all the minor inconveniences that he threw your way. Though when you were able to put a face to the 'menace', you almost felt..bad for being so angry.  
The man behind the door stood slouched, his face held an expression of a wince and annoyance all at once, as if he knew why you were here. He wore stained sweats, and from the glimpse you got from the apartment behind him, you couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. Your anger slowly evaporated to a mixture of pity and guilt. He must've noticed your sudden change of heart and newfound hesitation because he took the initiative to speak up first.  
"Can I help you?" He asked, his voice echoing how he looked. Tired and annoyed, with the slightest tinge of sarcasm included. If he didn't look so worse for wear you would've shot back with your own snide remark. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing." You finally spoke up, noticing just how dark the bags under his eyes really were. It took a lot for him to not roll his eyes at your reply. It was clear to him how you pitied him, and for some reason, it made him feel angry. It was the same face MJ held when she looked at him. He didn't know where he went so wrong in his life that his wife, well, recently ex-wife, turned from staring at him doe-eyed with affection, to looking at him with something between sorrow and pity in her eyes. He sighed quietly, balling up his fists for a moment before uncurling his fingers.  
"I don't need help kid." He shot back before he abruptly closed the door in your face, resulting in that anger you felt boiling in your veins returning. Who does he think he is? Calling me kid? You knocked on the door with the same fury as before, however, instead of opening the door, he opted to shout from the inside. "Unless you're my delivery, go away!" He shouted. You swore your knuckles turned white with how hard you were clenching your fists. "You know, for the one to call me a 'kid', you sure are acting like a fucking child!" You shouted at the closed door, storming back into your apartment when you don't get a reply. This is what you get when you try to help somebody in New York. It gets thrown back in your face.  
Any intentions of sleeping now (even though it was hardly eight o'clock) were thrown out the window by the rage you felt pumping through you. With haste, you angrily stuff your hair into a tight pony tail and start doing the one thing that could possibly help you unwind. Baking. Even with your lost passion, you still seemed to have a soft spot with the activity, finding comfort and solace in it. You swiped through your decade old recipe book with a frustrated sigh. After nearly tearing a page in half out of sheer anger, something in the book manages to catch your eye. Brownies. Simple enough, you were sure you had everything you needed.  
Little time was wasted gathering the ingredients before you began to channel the majority of your rage into your whisking, blending the ingredients together with the fury of Zeus himself. Once you were more than just sure everything was well combined, you carefully poured the batter into a glass dish and set it to bake in the oven for thirty minutes.  
It didn't take long for the scent to travel to your neighbor's apartment, teasing his gluttonous senses. It felt inevitable when you heard the soft tapping at your door. You almost wanted to be mad at him for having the balls to slam his door in your face then come begging for food right after, though, for some reason, it felt almost humorous. Especially when the soft knocking was matched to the saddened and guilty look on his face. Biting back the laughter you felt bubbling in your gut, you slowly opened the door. "Can I help you?" You mocked with a wide smug smirk stretched across your face. If he had any dignity left in his body, he would've turned around and left, but judging by the fact that he was even at your doorstep after the rude behavior he just displayed moments ago was proof enough he didn't have any.  
Before he could respond, you opened the door a bit wider, allowing him to weasel his way in. "Planning on joining me for dinner too?" You joked, chuckling at your own remark, but his reply caught you off guard. "I'd love to, thanks for the offer." He said with a shameless grin. Peter wasted no time making himself at home in your cozy little apartment, taking his own personal tour of your living room. If he didn't look like a kicked puppy you swore you would've kicked him out by now. You took the time he was distracted to do your own sort of investigation on him. You couldn't help but keep wondering just what had messed him up so bad for him to cry endlessly at night in the shower, bingeing on fast food, and let his apartment get in such disarray. Though, all the dots seemed to connect when you took notice of the tan line on his left hand. It was small and circular on his ring finger. Oh.


	2. Depression's one hell of a woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in case my context isn't strong enough, this chapter focuses on Peter's POV.

Wake up at noon, cry, think about where he'd gone so wrong, save the day, return home, order another pizza, and cry until two in the morning. Peter wasn't sure how he'd gotten this bad. He was almost convinced he was always this bad. Being Spider-Man never felt so..grueling in the past. Now it felt like a chore. Most normal people consider doing their laundry a chore, his just so happened to be saving New York. It began to feel like being Spider-Man was the ONLY thing he could do at the moment, he couldn't even be fucking bothered to clean.  
He sighed softly as he raked his hand through his hair, nearly cringing at how greasy it felt. He wanted to kick himself for getting this bad. Even after recognizing his need for a shower, he still held it off for an hour, opting to just..stay in bed. He didn't know why it took so much effort to peel himself from his bare mattress and trudge towards the shower. A grimace crossed over his tired features when he found himself nearly exhausted by the time he actually walked the three feet into his bathroom.  
He mustered up whatever strength he found left in him and started a bath, deciding a shower took too much energy. After the water started running, he could feel the tears starting to brim at the edges of his tired and sore eyes. A wince escaped him when he managed to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 'Look at your sorry state. This is who the people of New York call their hero.'. He couldn't say he wasn't used to being so harsh on himself. These days it seemed like he was his biggest enemy.  
Another wistful sigh escaped his slightly chapped lips as he discarded his well worn clothes into a pile on the floor, adding to the large pile that was already there. Hot tears fell down his reddened cheeks as he climbed into the tub, thankful he at least wasn't wearing clothes this time. For at least an hour, all he could manage was to stare at the bottle of body wash that seemed to taunt him. It was hard for him to find the motivation to grab it, and he felt sick when he had a gratifying feeling when he finally did. Most people felt this gratification when they've done something. When they've cleaned their home, when they've worked hard. It left a sour taste in his mouth that being the slightest bit productive is what filled him with the senses.  
He scrubbed himself bitterly, as if he was trying to wash away how he felt. Couldn't say he was surprised when it didn't work. He was glad when he finally managed to peel himself from the tub, harshly drying himself with a cheap towel before grabbing the cleanest looking sweatpants from the pile and throwing them on, stewing in his own disappointment with this action. His spidey senses alerted him of a visitor, allowing him a chance to put himself together before they had a chance to knock. He bit his cheek as he slowly opened the door after your third knock, surprised to see you again so soon, even though you were neighbors. Most people took flight when they had a chance to sit with him in this sorry state. This time however, despite her hesitance, he gave her opportunity to speak first.  
"I was headed downstairs to do some of my laundry" You started, pulling your half full basket into his view as some sort of proof about your story. "I wanted to know if you had anything I could bring with me to clean up." you offered. The pool of anger stewed in his gut. He was partially mad that you assumed he didn't do his laundry, but also mad because, well, you were right. He wanted to be irritated with you, but the look in your eyes kept him from outwardly being a dick. It almost looked like you..cared. The look sent odd shivers up his spine, feeling the all too familiar warm tears bubble up at the corners of his eyes. Internally, he chalked the 'caring' look up to just being pity, but he was just too defeated to care anymore.  
His cheeks reddened in embarrassment as he rubbed his neck, clenching his jaw before he spoke. "I might have a few things." He muttered, feeling almost ashamed that he was really going to let you help him like this. Aunt May would've insisted he did. He knew she hated when he refused clearly needed help just to wallow in his own self created misery. After telling you to wait at the door, he disappeared back inside to grab a basket, filling it with just a few things. He felt sick for accepting your help. He knew he needed it but that realization on it's own couldn't wash the bitter taste that seemingly stained his tongue. He felt like he was using you even though it was of your own volition.  
A moment later he returned with a basket that looked like it only had a few pairs of clothes in it. You shot him a knowing look. "you sure this is everything you need? I really don't mind." You insisted. After sitting down with him yesterday, you felt like you needed to help him. It was so clear to you just how lost he was, and having battled with depression in the past, you knew that a helping hand for the most menial things could really hold a valuable impact. You felt for him. Couldn't say you related to his problems, but you could say that they truly resonated with you.  
Peter couldn't muster up a reply. He didn't want to knowingly lie to you over something so stupid, but he also just didn't want to give you more and feel worse about himself. You took his silence as a hint to just take what you had, so you did. "Will you be home in about an hour?" you asked, accepting his bin as he hesitantly handed it off to you. "Can't say." He spoke truthfully. "Just leave it by the door if I'm not home." He muttered before shrinking back behind the door, wanting the invasion to just be over with. After the kindness you showed him last night, he just couldn't will himself to give you his normal sarcastic quips. He didn't want to push away the first person who had shown him kindness over sheer pity since the divorce. The kindness you were offering felt like something he needed right now, and maybe it was because he was desperate for a stranger to just lick his wounds, but he knew better than to go against his infamous gut.  
With quick goodbyes, you were soon on your way, leaving him alone again. As much as he wanted to be alone, he also couldn't stand it. He felt empty when he was alone, he felt bitter at his surroundings, but he couldn't find it in himself to change any of it. Depression was one hell of a woman and he was her bitch.


	3. Did you know that Gibbons mate for life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gains just a bit more insight on just how broken of a man Peter is.

As promised, an hour later you came back up the rickety stairs of your cheap apartment complex and found yourself outside of Peter’s door. You couldn’t help but frown when you noticed a sticky note with seemingly rushed handwriting stuck to the door. “Not home. Just leave the bin outside.” You read aloud with a bit of a sigh towards the end. After folding the sticky note and gently placing it in your pocket, you headed inside your apartment with both bins. You didn’t think it was a good idea to just leave his laundry outside, someone would probably steal it, seeing as how the two of you didn’t exactly live in the best of neighborhoods. You scribbled a note of your own with slight haste before sticking it on his door. You couldn’t deny, you kind of just wanted to see him again anyways. You’d be killing two birds with one stone right? If he wants his laundry, he’ll have to talk to you to get it. If he didn’t, well, then you just had yet another excuse to bother him again later.   
The hours ticked by as you kept yourself distracted with menial housework, becoming slightly worried when you still didn’t hear a knock on your door by sundown. You bit your cheek as you decided that maybe a check up wouldn’t hurt. He could've missed the note. After quickly running a hand through your hair and dusting off your shirt, you hesitantly made your way to Peter’s apartment door, delivering a soft knock once you arrived. It only took him three solid minutes before he opened the door, looking worse than he did earlier.   
You swallowed the comment you were about to make as you scanned over his face. His left eye was bruised and his nose looked swollen. You couldn’t stop the sullen look that crossed over your face. “Peter what the hell happened to you?” You blurted out, your frown gradually increasing. He seemed nervous, and nearly hesitant to provide an answer. “Just fell down the stairs on my way up today, it’s nothing.” He shrugged as he rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes cast to the side. God he was a horrible liar. “Nothing?? You have blood at the corner of your mouth!” You almost shouted, invading his personal space as you tried getting a closer look at his scrapes and bruises.   
You rubbed your face in frustration as he began to look even more guilty. “I have a first aid kit at my house, let me at least patch you up since you don’t look like you’re going to.” You grumbled, feeling a bit of relief when he agreed to follow. With much haste, you quickly disappeared into the bathroom once he was inside, shouting out to him, “Just make yourself at home” as you searched. A quick trip into your medicine cabinet granted you with exactly what you needed, dropping the small red and white box on your dining room table as you grabbed an ice pack from your freezer.   
You just couldn’t fight the slight ‘white knight syndrome’ he gave you. You placed the soft cooling pad over his black eye as gently as you could before continuing on with the peroxide, cautiously dabbing the small cotton rag at the corner of his mouth to clean the dried blood, wincing every time he does. The frown on your face grew as the blood cleared and revealed a busted lip. There was no way he just conveniently ‘fell down the stairs’ but you weren’t going to call him out on it, afraid that he would close himself off and refuse further treatment.  
At least your mandatory first aid class in college was finally paying off. A bitter chuckle escaped your pursed lips as you applied neosporin to his cut, moving the pad from his eye and settling it on his swollen nose as gently as you could. “Just keep alternating from the two.” You finally spoke, chuckling to yourself as you smeared chapstick over his chapped lips. He would thank you later for that. “Since you’re already here and it’s getting late...did you want to have dinner here again?” Slowly getting up as you popped the question. You almost missed the lazy grin that he threw your way as you left to the bathroom to put the medical kit away. “Only an idiot would pass up free food, especially when it’s as good as yours.” He spoke with a dry chuckle, settling himself further into your couch.  
After handing him your tv remote with a smile, you hurried off into the kitchen to get started on dinner. “Make yourself comfy, it’ll be a while.” You said, chuckling sharply to yourself as he clearly wasted no time doing so by propping his feet up on your ottoman as he turned the nature channel on. He was definitely odd. Luckily, it seemed as an endearing trait on him. You tuned out the television as you tied your trusty apron around your waist and carefully lifted the small thawed beef roast into a dish, seasoning it well before popping it in the oven. While you waited, you prepped everything for the sides. Once you were done preparing and making the sides, the meat was just about done. A thankful sigh passed through your lips as you quickly set the table, humming a soft song under your breath.   
You couldn’t fight the powerful feeling of satisfaction you felt once you looked at the table, with all the food carefully spread out. Though, a soft whimper quickly turned your attention away from the meal and towards Peter who was...crying? You carefully approached him, muttering a soft “hey” under your breath as you rested a hand over his shoulder. He glanced up at you with glossy eyes, evident tear streaks down his cheeks as he spoke, his voice cracking. “Did you know that Gibbons mate for life?”. You purse your lips as you frowned down at him, knowing now exactly what this was about. “Could you imagine? Just seeing someone and deciding that’s the person you’re going to be with for the rest of your life?” He asked in a pitiful tone. You always felt awkward in these situations.  
Comforting crying people was not your forte, but your body seemed to act on its own as you gently began to stroke his messy, nearly salt and pepper hair. “No..I couldn’t.” You muttered truthfully, crouching down so you were closer to face level. Whatever you were doing seemed to work as he leaned his head closer to your hand, seeking out the comfort you offered. It had been far too long since someone had laid a gentle hand on him.   
Frankly, the only times he ever really was touched anymore was by cashiers and delivery people when their hands would accidentally graze against his own, or when a villain would lay a beating on him. He was touch starved. He couldn’t care about how pitiful he must’ve looked leaning into your gentle touch. It was embarrassing how elated he felt when someone’s hand would even accidentally touch him. “Dinner’s ready.” You finally spoke, hoping the change in topic would ease him, which, thankfully it did. “Go ahead and wash up while I plate it.” You offer, throwing a gentle smile his way before you finally retracted your hand and made your way to the table, doing just as you said you would.


	4. Do you have any cool fight stories?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Peter get to know each other better over a casual game of three in the morning monopoly.

You weren’t sure when the passage of time started to escape you. Currently, Peter and you both were sat on your living room floor, making jokes and short quips towards each other as the two of you sipped on your drinks and continued to toss the dice, too caught up in your conversation and more than just mildly competitive game of monopoly to realize that the time was ticking close to 3 am. Luckily for the both of you, it was an easy going, quiet Friday night, so neither of you seemingly had anything to worry about, no responsibilities keeping your minds sidetracked.   
“And that’s how I almost became a photographer.” Peter finished, chuckling quietly at your laughter. “I still can’t believe you were on the path to becoming a photographer, I can’t even believe you worked for the Daily Bugle!” You cackled out in between breaths. Luckily, he gave you a minute to calm yourself down before he riddled you with more hilarious tales of what his life was like when he was in college.  
“You know” you started, fumbling with the dice before you tossed them out onto the board. “When I was a child, I wanted to be a baker. Like running a bakery.” You confessed, wanting to air out your own funny little childhood ambitions since he was so generous to tell you his. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought as you moved your small metal piece to the corresponding plot on the board, silently thanking god you didn’t have to pay rent. Though his sudden interest in your confession took you aback.  
“Why didn’t you?” He asked, setting his bottle of beer off to the side as he collected the dice from the board. “You’re an amazing cook!” He exclaimed shamelessly as he recklessly tossed the small plastic dice. “You’re just saying that because I constantly give you free food.” You teased, snickering quietly. Though the playful grin you sported quickly diminished when you saw he landed on free parking, swearing a stream of obscenities as he more than just happily took the pile of fake cash, a wide, almost devilish grin spreading over his face as he plopped it onto his pile of disorganized cash. If he weren’t so far away you swore you would’ve snatched his monopoly money and organized it for him at this point.  
“But I just kinda grew out of it.” You finally continued, realizing you never properly explained just why you never did anything with your dream job. “I got older and realized that it was obsolete. No one is interested in bakeries anymore when they can get their snacks at the grocery store. Besides, a job like that would never pay the bills.” You finished, almost cringing as those words sounded more like your mother’s than your own. Though ultimately, it was the truth. At the end of the day, you needed a stable job, one that can pay the bills, support you financially, and running your own bakery was more of a financial risk than just getting a regular 9-5 job.  
“I think you could make it.” he replied in a rather nonchalant manner. “Seriously, I’ve had your food, and I can positively tell you it’s so much better than half of the thriving local businesses that pump out hardly edible garbage.” He paused, taking a moment to change his position in favor of a more comfortable one. “Besides, people CAN get their desserts at a grocery store, but we all know that grocery store pastries aren’t THAT good.” He added with a chuckle, reclining back on his arm, only moving to once again collect the dice when it was his turn again.   
You let what he said to you echo around in your head, though you chose not to dwell on it too much. Afterall, it was late and you were slightly inebriated and having an internal crisis over your future wasn’t exactly on the itinerary tonight. So instead of choosing to think about it or pursue a conversation on the possibility of you running your own bakery, you decided to just change the topic. “You know, you still haven’t told me what you do for a living.” You mention.  
Lately, you’ve been starting to become interested in his private life. Sometimes he would just leave your apartment abruptly in the middle of dinner, dishing out some half assed excuse as to where he needed to be or why he had to leave so suddenly. The past week and a half you’ve known him, you’ve never really tried to learn anything about him that he didn’t openly let you know about. Partially because you felt like the two of you still weren’t close enough for you to ask, but partially because you felt awkward asking.  
You knew he’d clearly gone through some rough things in his past, and the only thing you really knew about him personally was that he was freshly divorced, and you only knew this because he’d recently moved into your shitty apartment complex, the obnoxious crying, and the tanline you noticed the first day you actually interacted with him. You felt as if there was an invisible wall between the two of you, despite the amount of time the two of you spent together. You couldn’t help but feel compelled to start breaking that down.  
“Are you some sort of underground MMA fighter or something?” You joked, snickering quietly as you moved your character across the board, thankfully (for him) you didn’t notice his slight panicked expression towards your question, though your joking comment thankfully provided him the perfect excuse. “You can’t tell anybody.” He said with a rather serious expression, sitting up a bit straighter, deciding to play into your joke. It was the perfect excuse for him. “You’re joking.” You shoot back in an extremely deadpanned manner. Though after a brief silence, with neither of your expressions showing any signs of faltering, you began to cave.   
“You’re not joking?” You ask, completely exasperated by the news you were receiving. You couldn’t tell if he was just messing with you or if he was being genuine about it. “You’re an MMA fighter??” You question again, the game now completely out of your mind now as you grew tunnel vision towards the current topic, which was arguably more entertaining than getting crushed in a board game. Even though it was meant to be a joke, somehow that career path just made sense. It would explain why he would rush away at odd hours and return the next day looking worse for wear. It would also explain why he never seemed too bothered by his injuries, no matter how serious they looked. Of course, your morbid curiosity began to overcome you, overwhelming you until you finally cracked and began the slew of questions, deciding to start with the tamest of them, all. “Do you have any cool fight stories?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, please don't read me too hard ;-; feel free to leave me a kudos or tell me if there's something more I could be doing with this work :)


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